Father Time runs the best PR firm for restaurants; survive long enough and in the end, everyone just gets to hear of you. Look at Rules, Wilton’s, Sweetings, Simpson’s. Look at wonderful Oslo Court in St John’s Wood. And look at Grumbles, sat on Pimlico’s Churton Street since 1964.
Not quite as famous as those others, perhaps, but you can’t knock its popularity. Go in on any given weeknight — hell, go in on a Monday — and the place will be merrily crackling with regulars. Many are locals. This is one of those restaurants where a table might have three generations sat around it. It is a restaurant diners tend to like introducing others to, sharing it. I imagine some of the men who come have been coming since childhood; I imagine this is where bring their girlfriends to ask them to be their wives. It is a restaurant where most of those know the owner by name, even as that name has changed. At first it was Jeremy Friend, thirty years later it was Charles Tidman, and since 2011, Alexander Turnbull. And now you know his name, too.
Of names, no, there isn’t a story behind Grumbles. It was just the Sixties: why not call it something silly? A sense of humour was novel, then: all the other places were either caffs or upscale clubs with stiff upper lips. A sense of humour also drew the stars: the Beatles, Christine Keeler, Rod Steiger, more. As Grumbles tells it, two waitresses — Patsy and Sylvia — did their share of the drawing too. I wasn’t there, I don’t know. But there’s a picture of Sylvia on the wall here and, well, yes. Very likely.
The place is a looker itself, as it happens. Its frontage is formed of a Devil’s Door and two sizeable, stained-glass windows, beauties both (their names would be Patsy and Sylvia), the type found in churches, or perhaps pubs. Inside, alarming purple aside, it is a cosetting sort of place: downstairs feels hidden away (this could be an affair restaurant) while upstairs is wood-panelled, with handmade tables and booths. In places it is gently worn, varnish undone by the thousands of guests coming and going, leaning back and relaxing, settling in for the night. It is not shabby, it just has been well broken in. It is as comfortable and reliable as an old waxed jacket.
In places it is gently worn, varnish undone by the thousands of guests coming and going, leaning back and relaxing, settling in for the night
Every restaurant has its secret and for Grumbles, it’s this: the wine list is marked up incredibly fairly. It offers mark-ups well below what is typical, especially in the centre of town — bottles, especially at the top end of the list, sometimes go for less than twice what your local vintner might charge (normally, three times would be expected, four is not unusual and five happens too). Going up the list buys better value, but there are also half bottles too, for abstemious types. Bring these back elsewhere; they are the perfect size for one. They are also rather prettier than ordering by the glass.
Menus here, one suspects, are of a similar vintage to the woodwork. What’s offered now is mostly what has always been offered: a white bowl of snails in garlic butter; moules marinières; tiger prawns fried and doused in a sauce of chilli and oil and flecked with parsley and laid out in a cross. There is a fish pie, char-grilled calves’ liver with bacon, battered cod and chips. Perhaps the menu’s star is the fillet steak, a slab of meat with the same shape and heft as a fist, which comes with a caramelised crust of English mustard whipped with brown sugar. This glistens; it adds to the meat the cutting heat of mustard, and a little sweetness too. It is somehow unusual and familiar concurrently.
By now you might well be able to guess the puds — the usual suspects have made it. There is crème brûlée, Eton mess, a good Stilton. A scoop of vanilla ice cream arrives with a small porcelain boat of chocolate sauce, and a bowl of toasted almonds.
All of this is reasonably priced — the steaks, at just shy of £36, are by far the most expensive thing, with most mains in the teens — and well executed. This is not a menu that innovates, but then, neither does it challenge. These are dishes most will be familiar with; they taste just as expected. What is served here is what is wanted. Grumbles knows what pleases; that’s what’s kept it going for sixty years. PR? Father Time? Who needs ‘em?
Grumbles, 35 Churton Street, Pimlico, SW1V 2LT, grumblesrestaurant.co.uk
